


She'll Destroy With Her Sweet Kiss

by TheMarvelousMadMadamMim



Series: A Summer in Cintra [8]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: F/M, Reunion Sex, a summer in cintra series, briefly introducing Visindra, look it's just a lot of lemony content basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:07:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23973505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim/pseuds/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim
Summary: Eist returns from Skellige to find that his wife has a few surprises in store.
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon/Eist Tuirseach
Series: A Summer in Cintra [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1658368
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

_Dearest Hound: Please rest well on your journey home. You shall not have much opportunity to do so, upon your return. ~Your Impatient Knight._

Eist’s mind plays over the words of his wife’s final message, which arrived the day before he set sail for Cintra. He can hear her voice reading it aloud, curling around the edges of his mind in heavy, warm, teasing tones.

He smiles, yet again, at her valediction. He’d jokingly referred to her as his knight, when they’d seen each other last—aboard his ship in Metinna, when she’d ridden down the coast to meet him, desperate to be at his side during a potential conflict. Now she seemed rather taken with the idea—though this was the first time she’d referenced it again, in their correspondence over the past week.

There’s a riddle in it, he knows. It’s the shortest message she’s sent, hardly worth sending at all, to be honest. But Calanthe of Cintra never does anything without absolute intention. There’s something beyond its face value.

Riddle or no, the promise behind such a simple statement brings another grin to his face. He moves to the bow of the ship, feeling a small measure of delight in finally seeing the Cintran coastline, slowly appearing on the horizon.

They’ll be moored and disembarked, by early afternoon. That’s usually when he arrives, barring storms or strong winds, which can either push their arrival earlier or later, depending on the direction of the breeze. It’s a perfect point of arrival: he can come in, say hello to Ciri, who’s generally preparing for her afternoon nap—and Pavetta, too, if she happens to be around, though often she’s tucked away in her rooms—and then make his way to the queen’s private chambers, for a proper reunion with his wife. The door will remain closed until evening, when they reappear for dinner. As much as he hates the fuss of court affairs, Calanthe always turns his return into something special. Perhaps a bard joins the evening meal, and there’s dancing and laughter. Perhaps there are jugglers or tumblers or, once, a man who rode upon trained bears. It is still generally the same lords, ladies, knights, and servants who attend every evening meal, which means the more tedious side of stately decorum isn’t applied, but it still always feels like a celebration, nonetheless.

Calanthe insists that it’s important for morale. That the kingdom must always see his return as a thing of rejoicing and celebration. Eist is fairly certain that, more than anything, she enjoys having a chance to publicly demonstrate her delight, even if she intentionally does it in a way that makes most people assume it’s merely for political show.

He doesn’t mind letting her hide behind the mask of public expectation—because when they are alone, there are no masks, and her joy and delight are even greater, even more beautifully demonstrated.

He’s still grinning, imagining Ciri’s reaction to seeing her Granfer again, as he moves down the gangplank.

However, his grin is quickly muted at the sight of Visindra, Calanthe’s cousin and most trusted lady-in-waiting. She’s standing on the docks, face set in a slightly worried expression.

“What is it?” He moves to her quickly, veins filling with a sense of fear.

“The Queen, your majesty. She does not fare well—she bid me to fetch you, as soon as you arrived.”

He looks over his shoulder, back to his men, who are still unloading the ship. Quickly, he confers with Birge, his first mate, leaving things in his capable care. Then he mounts the horse Visindra brought along with her own, and off they ride, up the wide paved road into the shining city itself.

Visindra doesn’t accompany him down the hallways, but he doesn’t need her to—he could navigate this castle blindfolded, at this point.

He practically bursts through the doors of the bedchamber, taking a moment to gain his bearings—she isn’t in the bed, as he expected. She’s standing in front of the fire, back turned to him completely.

She must truly be ill. The fire is lit, in middle of the day, in summer, and she’s completely wrapped up in her thick ceremonial cloak, the beautiful deep blue one with the golden lions embroidered upon it. The one she wears into battle, more often than not.

“You’re back.” She looks at him over her shoulder and smiles, as complacently as if she’s mentioned the weather. She doesn’t _sound_ gravely ill. Though her cheeks are slightly red, face sheening a bit unnaturally.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, moving towards her.

“Oh, I’m most feverish, I’m afraid,” she informs him. There’s a low raspiness to her tone, which immediately sets him on alert.

She’s being _coy_. He stops, taking a moment to merely size her up. She looks up at him, eyes lined with hopefulness as she decrees, “It’s much too warm, I think. Would you help me remove my cloak?”

She’s _definitely_ not sick. He feels his worry dissipate completely. Still, he takes a moment to release the last of his nervous energy, “Visindra made it seem as if you had the bloody plague.”

She frowns at that. “I told her to say that I did not fare well.”

“Which she did.”

“And from that your fucking mind immediately went to _she’s dying_?”

“I worry, Calanthe. You know I do.”

“Well, your worry is ruining the moment. Will you hurry up and get me out of the damned cloak? It truly is sweltering and I’ve been waiting in it for _ages_.”

He laughs at that, shaking his head. Only his wife would set up some grand seduction and then immediately get irritated that he didn’t follow her script—a script of which he had no knowledge.

“Why did you build a fire?” He asks softly, moving closer again.

“You’ll see.” She’s turned her face away, but he can hear the grin in her promise.

Her hands go to the tie of her cloak—something about the way her shoulders shift immediately puts him on alert. She holds up the corners for him. He steps closer, gingerly taking the cloak from her grasp and pulling it away, as if unwrapping a priceless gift.

Well, it certainly is that.

His eyes are the size of saucers when she looks back over her shoulder at him, grinning triumphantly. The look on his face is worth the wait, worth sitting here, slowly roasting in front of this damned fire in her armor and her heavy cloak.

He gets it now. The entire reason behind her last message. She’s in her golden armor, and nothing more—and even now, half the suit is missing. She has her pauldrons and bracers, her legs clad in cuisses and greaves, even her tasses belted around her hips. But her breastplate’s missing, along with anything underneath the actual armor.

“My impatient knight, indeed,” he breathes. He takes a step back, getting a better look. She stays in place, practically vibrating with delight. Yes, she’s truly floored him, and she doesn’t even try to hide the sense of smug victory such a feat inspires.

She holds out her arms slightly as she slowly turns to face him fully. It’s the way a woman would show off a pretty new dress, except this outfit has far greater effect on him than even her most daring gown ever could.

He understands the reason for the fire, too. It only highlights the gold, makes it seem to dance under the ripple of the flames. But the greatest part of the ensemble is the wickedly delighted grin on her features, the sheer joy of knowing she’s absolutely blown him away with this surprise.

Her voice is barely a whisper, “The cloak.”

He realizes he’s still holding it in his hands. In his defense, he wasn’t capable of focusing on much else but the sight of his wife in her armor.

Her grin implies that she doesn’t mind. Still, she lightly suggests, “Perhaps you’d like to set it aside, and fill your hands with something else?”

He nods at that, still a bit thunderstruck. He takes the time to gingerly lay her cloak over the nearest chair. Her heart tightens at the simple action—it’s more than just a cloak, it’s a symbol of her nation, and by extension, a symbol of herself. The reverence he affords it speaks to his love, his care for her in all things, in all ways.

See? The man deserves as many surprises as he earns, and more.

Now he’s reaching for her, and she grins again—he looks a bit like Ciri does, when presented with a shiny new toy, all eager eyes and grabby hands.

His grasp lands on her waist, just above the leather belt that keeps her tasses up. They slowly migrate up, over the curve of her ribcage. Despite the heat of the fire, she finds her body shivering. His hands shift in slightly, thumbs coming up to brush under each breast. The heat building in her hips tightens and pushes deeper at the contact.

She chose this ensemble to drive him wild, but she’s becoming just as easily affected, she realizes. She’s always loved the sense of power and invincibility that her armor has given her, but it’s something different, without the layers of clothing between it and her skin. The metal feels smooth, and the leather straps are just tight enough to be felt, and it all feels delicious against her bare skin.

Then there’s the way Eist looks at her—that in itself is a heady potion. Now he’s looking into her eyes again, still beaming in delight. Because he knows this is just for him, just his, and he can’t quite believe his good fortune.

Confirming her suspicions, he quietly asks, “Whatever did I do to deserve you?”

She grins at that, leaning in a bit, “I do not know, dear hound, but you’ll be serving your penance for quite a while longer still.”

He laughs softly at that, both amused and incredulous—as if this could ever be misconstrued as some form of punishment, as if her love and her place in his life could ever be seen as a burden, as some kind of unbearable attempt at atonement.

His gaze lowers, to the leather strap running between her pauldrons, just below the line of her collarbone—normally, they’d buckle onto her breastplate, but seeing as she wasn’t wearing it, she’d had to create something to keep them up and in-place.

“Rather inventive,” he murmurs, fingertip running the length of the strap.

“I’m rather good with a bit of leather,” she informs him with a grin.

He hums. _Don’t I know it._

Even without clarification, he knows that she figured out the piece herself. She can be clever and inventive, when need calls for it. And heaven knows she’s had armor malfunctions on the battlefield or campaign; she’s had to mend it herself with whatever was on-hand at the time. His blood rises at the thought of her sitting at her table, busily creating this piece, all for his benefit.

He loves the way she loves him.

She’s watching him with a soft, lazy-warm expression. Her eyes still shine but there’s less impatience, more enjoyment.

Quietly, she points out, “You have been in my presence for a full three minutes, and you still haven’t kissed your wife.”

“In my defense, my mouth was too busy gaping at the sight before me." He lets his hands slip around her shoulder blades, pulling her closer.

She smiles, but her eyes still slide down to his mouth. She shifts forward, almost imperceptibly, waiting for him to obey the unspoken command.

Sometimes he can’t help himself, though. It’s so delicious, getting to tease her—especially when it’s evening the score. He also leans in, almost enough for a kiss, but not quite. He holds and waits, feeling a measure of ridiculous satisfaction for the small huff she gives in response, her chin tilting up, just a fraction.

She doesn’t kiss him, either. Merely brushes the tips of their noses together, almost a taunt.

He finds himself grinning again at the predictability of it all. Of course, she gives a request and expects it to be fulfilled—she asked _him_ to kiss _her_ , she can’t possibly turn the tables, because that would be, in some odd way, admitting defeat. And he can’t abandon a chance to simply win at something against her, because it delights him to watch her pout over those types of things. So naturally, their equally competitive natures create a stalemate over a mutually desired outcome.

Her eyes come back to his, both amused and irritated. She pulls her body closer against his, shifting so that her lips barely brush over his as well—but not a kiss, no, not a defeat, not nearly.

One brow arches. _Don’t make me take it, darling—don’t make me take **you** , dear hound._

He thinks of their first night at the river. The frenzied frenetic power of her, the burning love and the aching desire, the intensity of feeling like the center of a universe that only included the two of them.

He lets his nose brush against hers again. _Go ahead, take it._

With a low growl, her hand slides to the back of his neck, finally crashing his mouth into hers. Even in the force, there is care—he can feel the way she angles the arm that holds him in place, trying to make sure her bracer doesn’t scratch or pinch him. Yes, she wants him, but she also wants him safe and unharmed.

He tightens his grip around her, feeling another swell of delight at the sound her armor makes in response. His hands slip further down her back, where eventually they meet leather and metal.

The tasses have to go, he realizes. Visually, they’re lovely. But if he has to choose between a charming visual and the ability to simply trace his way down his wife’s bare back and grab her ass, then there really is no choice on the matter.

He breaks the kiss, grinning again at the small, needy sound she gives, the way her chin follows forward, as if chasing his mouth. Then he steps back, putting just enough space between their bodies for his hands to come around, to the buckle of her tasse belt. Wryly, he admits, “While I do love every aspect of this look, I must admit, I do feel that you’re still a tad overdressed.”

She hums in amusement at that, letting him remove the piece. The belt had to be tighter than usual, to keep it in place, since it didn’t have her breastplate to attach to as well. There is a light mark around her waist, slightly pink from the pressure.

He kneels, gently pulling her hips forward so that he can kiss his way across the mark. Her hands dive into his hair, tugging in gentle encouragement.

“Well, if we’re making comments on attire, I’d say yours is far too much as well,” she points out, tone heavy with want.

He sits back on his heels, easily unbuckling the belt and scabbard at his waist and setting it in the chair with her cloak. He unbuttons his tunic, slipping out of it and tossing to the chair as well. He laughs silently at the way she simply waits, obviously not content. He removes his linen undershirt, finally barechested, and grins up at her, face glowing in the firelight.

Now it is her turn to reach for him like an eager child, hands desperate to touch all that she sees on display. She pulls at his shoulders, and once he begins to rise, she merely takes his face in her hands, pulling him in for another kiss so quickly that he nearly loses his balance. She hums in amused approval, hands quickly sliding down his neck and over his chest, fingers flexing happily into the newly-exposed flesh.

She’s making small sounds of warm delight as her hands stroke down the lines of his arms, never letting the kiss truly break as she shifts and pushes against him more.

He’s had his fair share of women (more than his fair share, according to some), but he’s never felt as deeply wanted by anyone other than her. There’s a desperate need for his whole self, for every ounce of his body and soul that is both gratifying and heady.

Not for the first time, he wonders how any person alive wouldn’t give their soul for a chance to be at the eye of this storm.

And more than anything, he wants to show her just how requited this sense of desperate desire is.

There’s been an unspoken offer, in this whole scenario—an invitation to play, a bit more beyond their usual games. They’ve created scenes like this before, played characters other than themselves, and it’s never been anything less than absolutely rewarding. His mind quickly whirls, easily piecing together exactly how he’d like to thank his knight for her service.

His hands take her wrists, lightly pushing her back far enough to truly make eye contact, while still keeping their bodies close.

She watches him, slightly curious and obviously aware that a shift is occurring.

“Would you like to pledge fealty to your king?” He asks in a low tone.

The fire was for the benefit of her armor. Yet somehow, Calanthe feels that maybe she set it, just to watch the way it warmed her husband’s face, the way it makes his eyes somehow both darker and lighter, dancing with playful promise. Her chest tightens at the unspoken invitation, and she nods, a bit numbly. His hands are still around her wrists, firm but still somehow gentle, a grasp that holds her only because she wants to be held by it (and if that isn’t some metaphor for their entire relationship, then she doesn’t know what is).

He slips further away from her, but she stays, waiting, body pounding with desire and curiosity. He takes the seat opposite the one next to her. He sits, posture so formal and commanding that she feels her thighs ripple with heat, like thunder before lightning.

Yes, he can be a pinnacle of control—and yes, more often than not, he gladly relinquishes it all to her.

With a slight turn of his wrist, he gestures to her. _You may approach, dear knight_.

His posture may be regal and reserved, but his eyes are glittering and wanting, raking over every inch of her. She feels a smug swell of satisfaction. Yes, he is a consummate performer in his own right, when they play these games, but she knows him, knows exactly what drives him mad, and she’ll use it to her advantage, every time.

Even before their marriage, there has always been a distinct way that he looks at her, when she’s in her armor. Admiration and desire and fascination for the way it changes her form and movement, all so openly on display that sometimes she felt it obscene, the way he looked, the way he let it be so easily seen by everyone around them, the way he let himself be so unrepentantly overwhelmed.

The game is a knight and her king. Yet she approaches not as some humble liegeman. She approaches as the Lioness. Rolls her shoulders back to a haughtier angle, tilts her chin just so, takes slow, lazy steps towards him, perhaps adding just a bit more roll to her hips. She knows that she swaggers and struts in her armor, but this goes beyond her usual flair. He eats it up, mouth softly opening, eyebrows slowly raising with each move she makes.

Fuck, she loves him. Loves the way he loves her, the way he plays and allows her to be playful without ever feeling ridiculous, the way he never tries to hide just how much he adores her, how much he wants her. She watches the way his grip tightens on the arms of the chair and her hips ache with longing, wishing he was gripping them again instead.

 _Soon_ , she promises her whining hips. For now, there’s the matter of a good performance. She bites her bottom lip as she slows her pace even more, taking a beat to simply appreciate the sight before her.

Then she takes a final step forward, keeping her eyes locked on his as she takes a knee, pushing her voice into her lowest, heaviest tone, “My good king. I do wholeheartedly offer myself to your service.”

She must be the most wayward knight in the history of the world, with her hands on his knees, thumbs lightly stroking the insides of his legs. Still, her king has the good grace to overlook the impropriety.

“An offer that only a fool would refuse,” he informs her, voice so etched with affection and adoration that she can’t stop the smile that blossoms across her face. His hand comes to her face, fingertips sliding under her chin, tilting it slightly upwards. His thumb brushes lazily, just below her bottom lip. It takes every ounce of self-control not to capture it between her teeth. But he can still see the slight pull of her head, can see the way she restrains herself, and the corner of his mouth hooks into a knowing smirk.

Mother of the World, she’s fairly certain her thighs are dripping at this point. The slightest smile from him undoes her more than most men could with far more direct touches.

“Rise,” he commands. She does, slowly, her hands never leaving his knees, which forces her to lean forward a bit. He takes a moment to admire what this angle does for her breasts, and she hums in amusement at his obvious, almost boyish delight.

His hands come to her hips, guiding her forward, into his lap. They stay there, keeping her in place as she leans forward slightly, her hands slipping to his hips, sliding further down to plant into the seat of the chair as she steadies herself. He takes a beat to simply look at her, to simply enjoy the electric tension of having her lips so close to his again.

He looks into her eyes, voice becoming husky as he repeats the familiar refrain, “Do you promise to speak only the truth, to be loyal and brave, and will you fight for your king, at any cost?”

“I do. I will,” she breathes. He feels the way she tenses, as if suppressing a shiver. She’s close enough that he can practically feel the way her lungs rattle in her ribcage, nearly helpless with want.

He gives a small hum of approval, knowing just how deeply such a sound affects her—as if in response, she releases a little sigh, as if she’s already far too overwhelmed when he hasn’t even truly touched her yet.

He lets his right hand slowly trace over the side of her hip, further around the top of her cuisse. He hovers over her center, not touching her yet, and he feels a measure of absolute satisfaction for the way she tenses again, as if barely restraining herself from pushing further in, further seeking him out.

Her eyes are closed and he patiently waits until she opens them again. Then he continues, “As your king, I grant you this commendation…”

He indulges her, slips his fingers inside wet heat that instantly tightens in response. Her head dips forward and a small, strangled sound rumbles in her throat. He can’t help but exhale softly at the sound, at the feeling of her, at the realization that she’s been this wet and wanting for so long now, waiting for him.

How does he do this? She wonders, half-hazy from the sudden spike in sensation. How does he take such staid words, words she herself has repeated a thousand times over now, and make them the most erotic things she’s ever heard?

It takes all that is left of her quickly-diminishing self-control not to roll her hips, not to truly ride his hand as his fingers slowly curve inside her, pressing into the spot that makes her eyes snap shut again. He slowly withdraws, pushing back in again as he continues, voice tinged with a rawness that only makes her even more helpless, “To symbolize your duty and bond, in fealty to the crown.”

“All hail the king,” she hears her own voice murmuring, before she can even truly register the words as thought. He chuckles at that, low and dark and so self-satisfied that she nearly shatters then and there. His left hand presses harder against her hip, keeping her from moving too much as his right hand picks up the pace, thumb coming up to find her clit. She nearly bolts out of his lap, already so high-strung from the tension, and he grins again—and not for the first time, she wonders at how his sense of smugness has never truly irked her, the way most men’s did. Maybe because it’s never been about having true triumph over her, she thinks—maybe because for him, it’s always been about finding victory in affecting her just as deeply as she affects him.

Now’s not the time for too deep of thinking—she ducks her head, lightly butting her forehead against his shoulder as she huffs and whimpers under the efforts of his hand. He dips forward, placing light kisses down the curve of her neck, down to the space just above the leather strap at her collarbone. She tries to shift slightly, to keep her pauldron from scratching his face, but his left hand holds her firmly, and that simple action has her squirming under another surge of heat.

Then he’s nuzzling against her cheek, and she answers the unspoken command by lifting her head up, meeting him in a kiss. Fingers curl and thumb presses hard and she’s crying out against his mouth, so desperate to tumble over the edge that he’s pushing her towards.

“Show me,” he begs, and she moans, closing her eyes as she tries to comply. Her hands scramble blindly, finding the arms of the chair and pushing herself back slightly, arching further into his hand as she puts a little more distance between their upper bodies, giving him a better view.

The look in his eyes, delighted and feral and unrepentantly adoring, is enough to overwhelm her completely (though his hand isn’t doing too bad a job, either, she can easily admit).

Eist takes in as much as he can, still filled with an almost-wonder. It’s not that he hasn’t imagined fucking her in her armor before—it’s just that, as usual, imagination cannot compare with the reality of her. She’s flushed and panting and absolutely golden, her skin glowing just as much as her armor under the light of the fire, sheening and nearly too hot to the touch. He can tell just how much effort it takes for her to force her eyes open again, and he feels another wave of affection—she always tries, when their positions allow for eye contact, to make sure she’s staring right at him, whenever she comes. It’s a sight to behold, a strange gift that he never knew he needed or even wanted until she gave it.

Suddenly, she’s laughing, breathless and triumphant and delighted, and he feels the muscles clenching around his fingers, the full-body shudders that ricochet into his own bones as she comes. She’s joy, in its purest form. His left hand comes up, sliding around to press between her shoulder blades as he pulls her forward, planting his mouth between her breasts, physically feeling the laughter that ripples through her lungs.

He feels giddy, swept away by the tidal wave of her joy. Finally, she eases and stills, slowly melting further into his lap and his arms, dipping to kiss the top of his head in soft affection.

He sits back again, slowly withdrawing his hand from inside her. He holds it up, watching the way her gaze diverts to his soaking wet fingers, eyes wide and dark.

Her left hand grips his wrist, slowly guiding his hand closer to her mouth.

Now she closes her eyes, knowing full well that he’s watching raptly, using all the dramatic theatricality at her disposal as she moans softly, taking his fingers in her mouth. The corner of her mouth flickers slightly at the way his fingers involuntarily flex at the contact.

This woman will be the death of him, he knows beyond all certainty. But he can’t think of a nobler end—or one he wants so whole-heartedly.

Her tongue slides between his fingers, gently separating them. There’s the lightest drag of teeth, only a hint of the power she could unleash. Once again, he’s reminded of just how like her namesake she is—she has fangs and she knows how to use them, but for him, they’re as delicate as eggshells.

Her dark eyes snap open again, locking directly onto his as she slowly pulls his fingers away from her mouth. There’s no mistaking her intent and he welcomes it, waits as she slowly and theatrically leans forward, mouth curling into a devilish grin before pushing into his.

The taste of her, on her own lips, is enough to create stars behind his closed eyes. His hands fly to her face, holding her in place as his tongue dives further in, seeking more. She hums and shifts, trying to press more of her upper body against his—though the stiffness of her armored legs don’t allow for much.

Finally, they part for air, but he keeps her close, letting his thumbs stroke the sides of her cheeks.

“I’ve been a useless wreck all morning,” she admits in a breathless whisper, eyes fluttering closed again. “Visindra wasn’t lying, when she said I did not fare well—I’ve been absolutely ill, waiting for you.”

Ill-tempered, she means, he knows. He shouldn’t take such delight in how his absence tortures her at times, but it seems only fair, as he generally feels just as much agony.

And he knows that she’s more than capable of taking care of her own needs—and she often does, while he’s away. But the idea that she still gets absolutely petulant because she wants to have moments of release, specifically _with him_ , well, a man can’t be blamed for coveting such confessions, can he?

He also can’t be blamed for wanting to tease her, whenever he can.

“Only all morning?” he keeps his voice low, almost incredulous. He takes a moment for another kiss.

She gives a huff at that. He can sense she’s rolling her eyes, even if only inwardly.

Quietly, he confesses, “I’ve been longing for you, since the last time you rose from my bed in Metinna.”

She grins at that, understanding completely—she’d shared his bed in Metinna, but the last time she’d risen from it, she’d already been in her full armor, having taken a small nap before riding back to Cintra.

“Yes, well, that’s a _general_ sense of longing,” she informs him, almost matter-of-factly. “That’s a given, really. I’m talking about a very specific _physical_ sense of it.”

As if to make her point, her hand slips down, lightly rubbing over his cock, currently straining against his breeches.

“And now you presume to dictate the levels of my desire?” He feigns slight offense.

She looks at him, absolutely impervious as she arches a brow. _I’ll dictate any part of you that I damn well please, and you’ll be thankful of it._

He grins. As lovely as his knight swearing fealty was, as much as he loves every shade and nuance of her, this one will always be his favorite. The absolute queen, unbroken and unbowed, commander of his heart and soul.

Currently she seems far more interested in parts other than his heart and soul. She’s shifting back slightly, hands coming to the ties of his breeches. He idly watches the way her pauldrons shift with each movement, the firelight behind them outlining them in a beautiful glow.

She notes his gaze, feels another swell of affection in her chest. He is a wonder, her man.

A far-too-overdressed wonder, currently. She pushes off his lap, rising to her feet and taking another step back so that he can rise as well.

With a wry grin, she points out, “A knight can’t truly be knighted without a sword involved.”

He laughs at that, and her delight ripples in response. She loves making him laugh, even if it means making the most ridiculous quips. The Lioness of Cintra is known for her wit and her snark, but not particularly her sense of humor, and she doesn’t mind. It’s more of a gift for him, another thing that only he tends to bring out.

Soon the king is gloriously undressed, and she takes a moment to simply look at him, body already flushing with a familiar warmth in response, even as her blood still hums from the previous round. He waits, grinning a bit breathlessly at her reaction.

To have her, looking like that, looking at him like this—it’s beyond a dream come true, he thinks. Again, he thinks of how she gives him some many gifts that he didn’t even know he needed.

Lightly, she reaches up, fingertips pressing into his chest as she pushes him back.

“A king should always stay on his throne,” she informs him. This time, he sit closer to the edge, making it easier on her armor-clad legs when she returns to his lap.

Except she doesn’t return to his lap. Instead, she takes a knee again, offering one last dashing grin before lowering her mouth to his cock.

She uses the tip of her tongue first, delicate and barely there, as if tracing an outline of him. Then with a hum, she truly takes him—his left hand immediately goes to her hair, fingers slipping between the braids wound and pinned into a bun. It’s one of her more intricate hairstyles, he realizes a bit numbly—she must have chosen it in an attempt to pass the time until his arrival.

The thought of her being so stir-crazy, so desperate to do exactly this, has him closing his eyes against the wave of emotion and desire. Granted, he’s been fighting his own body for most of this encounter, pushing off his own needs to fully tend to hers.

Not that he’s complaining, mind you. He’s never gone into a situation like this without being utterly secure in the knowledge that whatever he sacrifices, she will return to him in equal measure.

And this is no exception. Her hands are on his knees, slowly pushing up to his thighs. Her fingernails drag up and back down the insides of his thighs, teasing, sending waves of goosebumps in their wake. Then her palms press them wider apart, fingers flexing into his muscles, pushing and pulling with the slow, steady movements of her mouth.

Again, he finds himself watching the shifting of her pauldrons, their shine only highlighting the dark head bobbing between them, each movement showing just how deeply she’s pressing into him, with every part of her that she can in this position.

 _I do. I will._ Her breathy promise repeats in his head. It had merely been part of the game, the pledge of fealty he’d quoted. But the sincerity of her response still strikes him to the core. Yes, there may be an element of falsehood to their play, but the emotions and desires behind it are entirely real. After all, did she not come to fight at his side at Metinna, even without his call?

Suddenly, she’s pulling away, slowly removing her mouth, inch by inch. She’s looking up at him with burning eyes and he welcomes the incoming flames.

She’s rising, shifting to straddle him again. He eagerly pulls her forward, helps her find a suitable position—then she’s fully settling, he’s fully sliding into her, and they’re both giving low sounds of tension-filled delight at the feeling.

Her armor begins to creak and shift as she puts her hips into it, gripping the arms of the chair again to properly leverage herself. He keeps his hands on her hips, nearly desperate to find release.

There’s so much motion, so much sensation and activity that it takes him a moment to register that she’s actually saying something as she pants and pushes.

_Please. Please, please, please…._

What exactly she’s begging for, he isn’t sure—but he’ll gladly give it, that much he knows. His hands slip around to her ass, pulling her in harder and swiveling her hips. She dips her head forward, and he gladly meets her in a kiss. This time, he tastes himself on her lips, and the full-circle sense of communion sends another surge of heat through his hips.

She pushes back into him and this time he holds her in place as he comes, moaning against the leather strap at her collarbone. She rocks as much as she can in his grip, trying to ride out every ounce of his orgasm.

His grip eases but she still stays there. He feels the light movement of her hand, slipping down between them. Feels the quick jerky movements of her stroking her clit, feels the tightness and the rush of wet heat as she comes, sending aftershocks through his cock.

After a few deep, ragged gulps of air, she breathlessly admits, “I think—I’m not sure I can actually move. The armor—I feel stuck.”

The hinges at the joints aren’t meant for such quick, jerky movements—and the tightness of her leather straps probably didn’t do any favors for her circulation. With a slight laugh, he gently reaches round to the back of her right thigh, fumbling a bit as he undoes the buckle. The odd angle and lack of visuals make it take far longer than it usually would, but she tries to help, shifting slightly to the opposite side.

Finally, it comes undone and they both give small sounds of relief and delight. She rises, slowly pulling him from inside her as she puts her weight into her right leg, which has a slightly greater range of movement now.

“Turn around,” he instructs gently, and she obliges. He turns his attention to the buckle of her left cuisse, taking a quick detour to nip the curve of her ass (not his fault, it’s just right there, gloriously available for the biting). She twitters slightly put doesn’t truly pull away.

Then she turns a bit, placing her foot in the space between his open thighs so that he can unfasten the greave straps at her calf and ankle. He goes, gingerly lifting the entire leg of armor, still held together by another set of buckles, and setting it on the floor.

She’s always had delicious legs. Right now, they’re sweaty from being stuck under the unbreathing metal—he relishes the feeling of slick skin as he kisses the side of her knee.

Her hand comes out to ruffle his hair affectionately. It’s a promise and a reminder: _Later. Right now, focus on the task at hand._

She shifts and turns, switching so that her other foot is on the chair. He repeats the action, though this time, instead of a kiss, he merely lets his hand slide up the velvet softness of her thigh. Then he reaches for her hands, removing the bracers that cover wrist to elbow. He kisses the pulse points on her wrists, not missing the way she shifts a bit under the contact, as if already too affected by such a simple touch.

But it’s never just a simple touch, is it? It never has been, between them. In the years before their marriage, they had rules, lines that couldn’t be crossed. Yet they still found a way to create a language between them, a song written through looks and the lightest, chastest of touches. Now the simple melody is a full-on symphony, deeper and more resonant, but the base notes are still there, still always guiding the tune.

He rises to his feet, eyes scanning over her pauldrons and trying to figure out where to start. With a slight grin, she silently shows him just how they unlatch. He gingerly removes them as well. Once they’re set aside, now filling the chair behind him, he takes a moment to lightly hold her by her upper arms, head dipping down to sample the curve of her shoulder, where the skin is still hot and sticky from the armor. There's an oddly metallic taste to her and he finds is fascinating.

She tilts her face up to the ceiling and sighs with every ounce of her lungs.

“Welcome home,” she says.

And he can’t help but grin.

“We’re not done celebrating yet,” he informs her, although he knows that she’s already well-aware of that fact.

Even without glancing up, he can feel her grin. Her hands come back to his hair, playful and passionate at the same time. He feels a resurgence of the joy that bloomed in her face when she’d come in his hand, laughing and breathless, singing across her skin once more.

“No,” she agrees happily. “We’re not.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a small section of this chapter that is entirely NanukSolitura's fault.  
> Nanuk, a dash of your favorite Eist.

The feast is lovely. Cirilla melts the entire hall when she spots him, pulling away from her mother’s hand to race down the length of the great hall, delightedly calling, “Granfer, Granfer!”

No one doubts that the king adores his granddaughter. He certainly doesn’t hide it, meeting her halfway and scooping her into his arms.

Calanthe patiently waits at the high table, suppressing a smile at the sight. She has a habit of taking on the most unkingly men as consorts, apparently—but this time around, she finds that she doesn’t mind, much.

Eist sits on Calanthe’s left, with Pavetta on his left as well—as customary, Duny sits on Calanthe’s right, an unspoken nod to his role as the next ruler of Cintra, though she’s trying to ensure that her daughter fights tooth and nail to be the true power behind the throne, as she did herself during Roegner’s rule.

Pavetta doesn’t hold the same need for control that she does, though. A blessing and a curse, depending on the situation.

She and Duny discuss the state of this year’s breeding falcons—a mutual interest in horses and hawking being about their only point of connection, besides Pavetta and Ciri. Occasionally, she turns her head slightly towards the other side, overhearing snippets of Eist and Pavetta discussing some new book that he’s brought back from Skellige. He obviously thought it would be of interest to her, and she seems rather eager to give it a read.

Not for the first time, Calanthe finds herself amused that, in all the ways she and her daughter differ, Eist seems to fill in the gaps with similar interests of his own, between both of them.

Utterly predictable, Cirilla waits until the light pause after Mousesack gives a toast to welcome Eist home to loudly declare _Arse!_ , which earns her a ripple of laughter and a quick, hushed lecture from Nanny Torsta.

Calanthe rolls her eyes and Eist shakes with unvoiced amusement.

“Even with a warning, it’s a delight,” he whispers in a low tone, for only her to hear.

“It sounded a bit as if she were calling _you_ an arse, which I must admit, is ultimately quite fitting,” she returns through a tight jaw.

His right hand lightly brushes against her hip. _I am, and I’m all yours. You chose this, wholeheartedly, and I’ll never let you live it down, as long as I breathe_.

Heaven help her, these traitorous hips are already flaring and filling with heat and want. She’d gather her skirts and straddle him now, if she could.

Eist idly watches the way his wife’s left hand tenses around her knife, feeling the way her body shifts a bit in her seat. He knows the signs of her arousal and he feels both a slight flutter of surprise and a full measure of satisfaction at knowing she’s already so far gone.

She really did miss him, this time. Not that she doesn’t always, but usually, after he greets her in the privacy of their chambers, she’s sated at least until after dinner. They’ve only reached the first round of toasts and she’s already as restless as a horse boarding its first ship.

He’d gladly ride the restless energy out of her, he thinks warmly.

And because it’s her, and because he can never resist—because he’s a wicked, wicked man, or so she's said, many times—he lets his fingers reach out again, this time pressing the tips of his index and middle fingers into the delicious softness of her hip, slowly drawing further up with measured intent.

She ducks her chin slightly, staring straight ahead as if focusing all her might and attention at some unseen mark across the room. There’s a flush, just over the top of her dress’ neckline. Her grip on the knife is so tight, he thinks it may actually snap in two.

She tries to shy away, as if his touch is fire itself.

“Tired of my touch, already?” He feigns soft concern, leaning in slightly, making doubly sure that only she can hear him.

“That’s not what is happening and you know it,” she practically hisses. Her face turns slightly towards him, better angling her voice so that no one else can overhear, but still pointedly avoiding his gaze.

He knows why. He knows just how she’ll look at him, if she truly looks at him. Knows that it will be screamingly obvious, to anyone who looks up at the queen’s table right now.

As a child of the islands, water may be his element, but he does so love to play with fire.

“Then whatever is the matter, dear queen?” He moves closer still, letting his lips nearly touch her ear. She ducks her head and he can hear the soft, barely audible sound that she tries to push down, back into her lungs.

“I do so hate you,” she informs him. There is certainly deep emotion behind the words, but hatred isn’t the right one, and they both know it.

“Is that what this is about?” He laces his tone with light surprise. “Your deep, burning _hatred_ for me?”

She’ll kill him, she thinks. Stab him right in his smug, craggy, far-too-damned-attractive face and have done with it. It’s the only logical way to end this torture, at least quickly enough to stop her from fully embarrassing herself. Then of course she’d have to explain why, and that’s far too big of a mess to unravel, particularly in public.

Oh, the ballad they’d make of that, she thinks wryly.

Still, she knows that Eist will save her, somehow. He loves reducing her to this state, but only for his own private pleasure—he’s always been highly aware and concerned for her public persona, sometimes even more so that she is herself.

But before salvation, there will be more temptation, she knows. It brings both delight and dread.

His breath is hot, tickling against her skin as he points out, “As I am the guest of honor at my own feast, I cannot simply whisk you away—a pity, I’m sure you’d agree.”

She presses her lips into a thin line. Even now, he looks for an excuse to get out of a court affair, and to very pointedly punish her for making him attend one in the first place.

She really should just kill him.

His tone is laced with knowing as he suggests, “You, however, could slip away on your own for a few minutes. Come back when your hatred is…more in hand.”

Now she feels a surge of deep anger. She turns a bit more, and he understands, shifting so that his face is in front of hers, shielding her from anyone too curious and too good at reading lips as she leans in and whispers, voice shaking with petulance, “I don’t _want_ the touch of my own hand, Eist, I want _you_.”

He hums at that, so smug in just how well-aware he already was of that fact. “Well, then it seems you’re in quite the predicament, little pussy cat. A king must stay at his own feast.”

The last bit is a line she’s repeated to him, countless times over the years. Simultaneously, she wants to scream and laugh at how it’s being thrown back at her, at a time like this.

After all, it is entirely his fault that she’s in such a state. He’s been so endearing all evening, with Ciri, with Pavetta. He’s had the table laughing with some story about his voyage back from Metinna, making it seem like a lark rather than a potential war. To say nothing of all the ways he’s pushed her to absolute oblivion since his arrival back home.

They’ve been like rabbits all afternoon, barely pulling apart in time to bathe and dress for the evening (there’s a reason she’s wearing her easiest dress and has her hair in a simple loose chignon—she didn’t have time for anything else, even with the help of her ladies, who are good enough to make sure that they only exchange knowing looks when they’re absolutely certain that she can’t catch them). Even in the earliest days of their marriage, she doesn’t think it was quite like this.

The river, she thinks again. There has been a shift between them, since they first started going there. A deeper intimacy, further deepened by her trip to Metinna. Yes, there have long been parts of their lives that happen behind closed doors, but even then, there have been witnesses, in a way—the guards outside her door, the pages and ladies-in-waiting, all of whom could mark the days and hours, who at least had a vague idea of where the king and queen were and what they were doing, at any given moment.

But for the first time, they’re truly crafting a secret, shared history. No one knows that they even left the castle, in those moments—and extremely few people will ever know about her trip to Metinna, it certainly will never be recorded in the annals of her reign. They exist outside of knowledge, outside of witnesses other than themselves. It’s wondrous and heady and addictive and it’s only increased the trust she has in him. From that trust comes the deepest sense of intimacy, and her desire to express and explore it to the fullest.

She’s never been good with words. Even as a small child learning to write and give speeches, her tutors and nursemaids always chided her flatness and her curtness, her inability to grasp that people often needed more detail than she gave. She knows that she still often fails at that—and Great Mother, how she has tried to correct it. Even the most casual off-the-cuff remarks at feasts and other courtly events are generally taken from a pre-selected set of responses that she’s mentally rehearsed long beforehand.

But Eist is the opposite—and as such, he seems to need less words from her, to truly comprehend her message. He understands the things her touches and glances say, without any aid from her lips (well, at least not _verbal_ aid). Even now, as she hisses and threatens, he understands that her desperation comes from a far kinder, far more welcoming origin than its final expression implies.

He makes her feel…natural. As if her way of communicating is as clear as a bell, as easy as all the world to understand. Granted, there are still plenty of times that he’s bewildered and confused by her, but more of than not—and usually, when she most needs him to—he understands.

And right now, she wants to express it all, the best way that she can. Wants an excuse to be soft with him, to be tender and welcoming and truly free to show her adoration. Wants to finally reveal his last surprise for the evening, already desperate to see that look of delighted astonishment on his face again.

But right now, she can’t. So instead, she huffs, giving a low growl as she draws further away. He counters, sitting back in his own seat as well.

She can sense it—the slight tension in his body—and she knows what he’s about to do.

“Touch me again and I will well and truly stab you,” she sets her left wrist against the table with a light thump, effectively bringing attention to the knife in her hand.

He sighs airily, as if he’s some great martyr. “As you wish, my queen.”

For some reason, that is what makes her laugh, bowing her head and huffing slightly in frustrated amusement.

Now she’s able to look over at him, at his easy smile, at how obviously delighted he is to have her in such a state already, at how devilishly handsome he is, how well mischief and lust suit him.

“I do loathe you entirely,” she informs him, tone low and rasping with warmth.

“I loathe you entirely too,” he smiles back. This one is softer, sweeter.

She releases her knife, lets her left hand dip below the table. His right comes to meet her. Their fingers shift and entwine, pulling and pushing, a small dance of affection and desire. Her fingertips trill over his palm, coming up to press more insistently into his pulse point before sliding entirely around his wrist, gripping tightly. _Behave, or be punished afterwards._

He grins, knowing full well that punishment looks too often like reward in this particular scenario.

But before he can respond, she shifts, angling her shoulder slightly more towards him as she admits, in a low tone, “You still have one last surprise, dear hound. Don’t make me take it away.”

He perks up at that, and she feels a flutter of smug satisfaction.

He is a model king, the rest of the night.

It does nothing to quell the restless energy bubbling in her veins. If anything, it builds.

* * *

It seems surprise enough that Calanthe bends her own rule and excuses them both from the feast, shortly after the evening’s entertainment begins.

 _We still have to discuss matters regarding Metinna_ , she’d informed the rest of the table, with a curt nod that brooked neither refusal nor follow-up question.

It wasn’t a lie, technically. After all, Eist reasons, his previous homecoming surprise was directly inspired by a conversation had in Metinna, so who’s to say if this next one isn’t as well?

She doesn’t look back, doesn’t check to make sure he’s following (she knows, oh, she knows that he’d follow her anywhere, for any reason), doesn’t even try to hold back her own quick pace. He grins, remembering just how unsettled she’d been at one point during dinner—he can only imagine those feelings are rising up again, promising an extremely satisfactory end for them both.

He notes, after a few minutes, when he can finally stop admiring the cut of her gown and how well it compliments her shape, that they’re heading eastward. To the stables.

To the river already, then. His delight only deepens.

While she may be acting a bit more recklessly than usual, Calanthe of Cintra also plans ahead for her own flights of fancy or other unforeseeable acts. There are always spare cloaks in the stable, and a few hidden blades that she always has placed strategically throughout. She notes his slight look of surprise with a mere arch of her brow, and he simply grins, as if having a wife who randomly stashes weapons under boards in the stable is the most charming thing he’s ever witnessed. But one simply never knows where one will be when chaos strikes, she reasons, and she’s never felt over-prepared for anything that’s befallen so far. Right now, it’s playing nicely into her hands, because it means they can simply run off when they choose, no need to go all the way back to their chambers or ask a servant to fetch the things they need—once again, it allows them to live without witness, and she’s beginning to realize just how much she loves the idea.

Calanthe hadn’t quite considered how her current dress would affect riding. Her dresses for evening court affairs are always a bit tighter in the hips, when the potential of needing to ride out at a moment’s notice is vastly reduced. She’s always liked the look on her body, and subsequently, how it often made men uncomfortable in her presence, knowing they shouldn’t look upon a queen like that and yet still unable to truly look away. It's a petty little power play, on her part. But it’s the little joys that one must find in life.

Still, she manages, pulling the more tightly tailored hips of the dress up enough to give her legs the necessary range of motion to mount and sit in the saddle.

Eist is already atop his own horse, watching in mild amusement. She rolls her eyes, giving a slight huff, _Don’t say a damn word._

He merely shrugs, as if he hadn’t dreamed of teasing her, ever in his life. Then he gives a grand gesture towards the arch leading out of the stables and into the streets of the city.

“After you, dear queen.”

With a grin, she adjusts the hood of her cloak and leads the way.

* * *

“It’s going to be quite a while,” she explains, after telling him not to tie the horses’ reins to the nearest tree.

He likes the sound of that. Her knowing grin implies that she can read his thoughts, easily enough.

She brought saddlebags, this time. The attire they wore out here is far more noteworthy than what they usually don for these excursions, and she’d rather not have some possible passerby thinking that the horse wandering the field has a rather expensive looking dress up for grabs, just tied to the saddle.

Not that she’s ever encountered a single soul out here, but one never knows.

Eist goes to remove his crown, but her voice stops him.

“Keep it.” She’s looking at him over the seat of her saddle, which is currently draped with her cloak and gown. There’s something in her eyes that makes his pulse quicken.

“As you wish,” he obeys.

As usual, he’s fully undressed long before she is, with all her laces and layers. He walks around the horses, gladly coming to help her finish as well.

She keeps her crown too, he notes. He’s curious and mildly amused.

Once things are stowed away in saddlebags, she removes the horses’ bridles and hooks them over the saddle horns. She clucks her tongue at Eist’s lovely sorrel mare, who is definitely more of a leader than her own dear sweet Hound, who is already snuffing the ground for something to munch. The mare nuzzles closer and Calanthe scratches her chin, leaning in to kiss her long face.

“Be good, and stay close,” she states. Behind her, she can hear Eist’s small huff of amusement.

However, the mare nickers as if she understands every word.

Then Calanthe turns back to her husband with a perfunctory air. “Now, I do believe we have business to attend.”

He gently takes her hand and helps her down the steep bank.

She moves easily, stepping into the water with absolute confidence, and instantly he knows that she’s been here far more times without him. There’s almost a pattern to her steps, as if she’s learned exactly where to put her feet on each stone.

“I told you to wait at least a week,” he repeats his instructions from two weeks ago, back in Metinna. Her poor thighs had been rubbed raw from the long ride down the coast, and he’d been so afraid of her catching an infection from the river with her broken skin.

“I did,” she says simply, turning back to look at him. The water’s at her thighs now, and she makes a compelling picture. Noting his still-unconvinced expression, she adds, “I promised, didn’t I?”

He can’t argue with that—he knows that she keeps her promises, as best she can.

“Now wipe that grumpy look off your face and join me,” she commands, continuing to wade further in.

He complies, but he still snarks back, “Oh, so you can threaten me with grievous bodily harm over dinner and pout like a right brat, but I can’t be concerned about the state of your wellbeing?”

“Now you’re catching on,” she grins as she turns back, pushing off a rock and gliding further into the river on her back. “Only three years of training, and you’ve finally gotten it. Bravo, dear boy.”

He doesn’t want to laugh at her overly indulgent tone, but she’s so over-the-top, so theatrical and ridiculous, he can’t help it.

She gives a strong push of her arms, gliding further backwards.

She’s definitely been here many more times without him. She’s watching him with an almost gleeful sense of expectation.

Granted some of his admiration is directed at her form, pale and lithe beneath the water. As if sensing that, too, her knees part a bit wider.

“Coming or not?” She taunts, voice rippling with the same heated energy that he felt radiating off her at dinner.

As if that’s even a question. He wades in a bit deeper and then dives beneath the water, easily closing the distance between them. However, when he comes back to the surface, she’s already several yards away, grinning like an absolute devil.

“You’ll have to be faster than that, dear hound.”

There’s a challenge in that, he knows beyond all doubt.

This time, he swims above water, so he can keep his eye on her. She grins breathlessly, turns again, and hauls off as well.

Great Father of the Sea, she has been busy while he’s been away. He has to stop for a moment just to watch her, to truly register how much faster and stronger her kicks have gotten, how sure and streamlined her arm strokes.

She finally stops, turning so effortlessly in the water, grinning and bit breathless. She’s moved far enough downstream that she’s in the shadows now, but her eyes and her smile still shine like the moon.

He understands that this is his final surprise. This small show of dedication on her part—not just to surprise him with her skill, but to show that being able to do this, being able to commune with the water this way, is important to her, because it is part of him.

Calanthe’s heart thuds riotously against her chest as she watches him, watches the realization slowly dawn on his features. She’d feared that perhaps it wouldn’t mean as much to him as she’d thought, that maybe he wouldn’t be that impressed—or even impressed at all, really—with her improvement, that perhaps this last surprise would be a let-down.

But she sees his breathless, boyish grin and she knows she hit the mark, perfect bullseye. She plants her feet firmly on the rocky riverbed, rising to her full height and simply watching him, eyebrow lifting in challenge.

The water in her section is a little deeper, and when she stands, it still laps just below her collarbone, the curve of her shoulders barely out of the water. With her crown on, she looks like some mythical deity, risen up from the waters to claim his soul.

Too bad she’s already won it, ages ago, Eist thinks with another grin. He readjusts his own crown, which he nearly lost when diving underwater, and quietly accepts the challenge.

Her throat tightens as she takes in the way the moonlight shines over his wet skin, highlighting the arms and shoulders that she’d gladly spend her lifetime tracing with her tongue and mouth, if she could. He adjusts the crown and there’s something so definitive, so determined in that simple action that her thighs instinctively squeeze together, toes slowly rising to a point as her knees buckle.

He pushes forward and she allows herself a moment—just a moment—to watch him, all burning eyes and easy grace.

Then she turns and pushes off the rocks with all her might, propelling herself forward.

He’s not going to catch her, not until she wants him to. A bit ambitious, but if nothing else, she is fueled by sheer force of will. Plus a burning need to tease him just as cruelly as he did her, at dinner.

The brief, dark little smile she gives before swimming further away makes him want to laugh. She’s gone from timeless deity to playful river nymph, and he doesn’t mind the shift. The idea of spending his days chasing her like this—and even occasionally being lucky enough to capture her—sends another spike of heat through his blood.

He’s gaining, but not nearly as quickly as he would like. He’s also a bit exhausted from the journey back—he never sleeps as soundly aboard a ship, despite the years of practice, and he certainly doesn’t rest as fully without her in his bed. Usually, when he returns, he gets a quick nap in, after their joyful reunion—that certainly didn't happen today (not that he's complaining, mind you). Still, he’s got enough adrenaline to carry him through, bolstered by the prize at the end of this chase.

The trees give way to slightly more open land again, and he suddenly notes that the river is wider, too.

There are more rocks, less points to safely come ashore, if need be. His heart begins to race from an entirely different emotion.

“Calanthe!” He calls, suddenly feeling a wave of panic. She’s not that strong yet, and even a strong swimmer can’t manage a white-water rapid, which could be very well what this turns in to, around the next bend.

She stops, whirling back to him. Even now, he sees the way the current pulls at her body, how much stronger it grows, just in the distance between them.

“It’s not safe,” he informs her.

Her mouth quirks into a grin.

“Nothing ever is,” she returns philosophically. With another teasing look, she turns and pushes off again. “You’ll have to try harder, dear hound!”

He’s certain that he’s never swam so furiously in all his life. She disappears around the bend, hidden by a large outcropping of smooth stones, the same kind used to build her beautiful city, the same ones that line the walls of their bedchamber and her throne room.

Eist curses and pushes himself harder. He can feel a slight cramp in his thigh—surely she’s begun to feel the effects, too—she isn’t prepared for this, no matter how much she’s come out here and splashed about on her own.

He lets the push of the current, much stronger in this particular section, send him even faster forward, easily navigating the curve of the river.

Naturally, having no experience in such matters, she hadn’t predicted or planned for just how much the current would throw her further into an outward arch, and he can see the way she tries to pull back slightly, to fight the push that wants to send her straight to a line of large boulders at the river’s edge. He growls and lets himself get taken into the current’s stream, easily bridging the distance between them.

He grabs her upper arm, correcting their course so that they’re up against a large boulder in the middle of the river, where the current parts and breaks into weaker sections.

“ _Woman_ ,” he growls, between heavy pants. But the rest of his lecture dies on his lips. She’s looking up at him, so warm and affectionate. She’s leaned up against the rock, breathless and happy, so blithely unaware of her own chaos.

How can he not love her, even as he fears her?

She takes a moment to survey his expression, seeming delighted rather than concerned at his reaction.

“You poor, poor thing,” she coos. There’s a slight quirk to her lips as she watches him in almost-idle fascination. “Saddled with a woman like me—whatever will you do with her?”

 _Never change, please_ , he thinks. She's infuriating and irresistible and he can't help but love her, exactly as she is, even as it murders him.

He plants his hands on the rocks, just over her shoulders, leaning in for a deep, searing kiss. Even over the low roar of the river, he can hear the small sounds that she makes as they reverberate against his tongue. She pushes forward, her teeth crashing against his lip. He tastes blood but isn’t sure if it’s his or hers, doesn’t care enough to pull back either way. Her arms are wrapping around his neck, her legs around his hips—with the water to buoy her and the rock to keep her steady, it isn’t much of a burden on him at all, and he pushes forward, pushes more of his upper body firmly against hers. She whines, tilting her head up and hitting her crown on the rock behind her solidly enough to knock it loose, almost completely dislodging it. He grabs it before it truly falls.

Without the crown in the way, she can lean back fully, resting her head against the rock as she smiles up at him.

“My dear, sweet hound,” she rasps, expression filling with absolute smugness. “I knew you’d save me.”

He wants to berate her for such using such faulty logic—but so far, she’s never been proven wrong.

“So this was part of the surprise?” He looks around at the river and the rocks. “Nearly scaring me to death at the thought of losing you?”

“You’re quite cute when you’re grumpy.” She lets one hand trail down the line of his jaw. She leans in a bit, almost taunting him with the nearness of her lips to his. “It’s not my fault that you couldn’t catch me sooner.”

He doesn’t know whether to scream or to laugh at this woman.

Then her arms around his shoulders tighten, pulling her further up, so that she can press her cheek into his, lips brushing against his ear as she hotly adds, “And it’s not my fault that I had to keep pushing you, to make up for the abhorrent way you acted at dinner.”

“So that’s what all this is about?” he mirrors her, letting his mouth ghost over the shell of her ear. “Calanthe of Cintra is having a temper tantrum because she couldn’t have a bit of cock?”

She growls at that, shifting further against his body.

“You always say not to reward tantrums,” he points out. Granted, that’s in reference to their granddaughter’s toddler antics.

“This is different and you know it,” she snipes back. Her teeth lightly pull at his earlobe. It’s a warning, and a promise.

“How so?”

“I’m an adult. Beyond reforming. It’s best to just give in and make me happy.” There’s a more teasing lilt to her tone now. She knows he will. They both do.

“Right here?” His voice is so low, so husky and heavy that she barely catches it. She considers the question—as delicious as it sounds in theory, sex in water in actual practice is less enjoyable. Plus having a few layers of skin removed by the rock against her back—not what she’s looking for, not tonight.

“Let’s go ashore,” she decides.

He shifts slightly, as if nodding in agreement. Then his lips press more firmly against her ear, starting a slow, steady trail down her neck.

“In a moment,” he decrees. “Let me keep you like this, just a bit longer.”

She closes her eyes and turns her head slightly, giving him better access. She tightens the grip of her thighs, pulling him closer and moving against the hardness that’s been pressing into her since he pinned her here, feeling the familiar surge in her hips in response.

He sucks particularly hard at the spot where her shoulder meets her neck, and her head rolls forward, her own mouth desperate to touch him in return. She kisses whatever part of him that she can reach—the corner of his jaw, his neck, his shoulder.

Her head dips a bit lower, a soft, helpless moan slipping from her lips and echoing in the small space between their chests, sheltered from the river.

She’ll have him exactly like this, even if it’s not tonight, she decides. Tonight she needs a little more softness, a little more simple joy to celebrate having him here, home and safe and with her, where he belongs.

“Please,” she whispers, pushing her mouth closer to his ear again. “Please, just—”

“Almost,” he promises. She sighs and lets him have just a moment more. His hands come to her hips, holding her steady as she unwraps her legs, finding solid footing on the riverbed again. He still has her crown, hanging around his wrist like an oversized bracelet—with a look of slight concentration, he puts it back on her head. Then he gently takes her wrists and pins them up on the rock, leaning in to kiss her neck again.

“Just a little longer.” It’s half command, half plea. She turns her head slightly again, opening herself up for more and silently acquiescing.

Her body tightens and shivers at the pull of his teeth against her skin, the brush of his body against hers again. She looks up, eyes widening as she takes in the view. Past the rocks scattered along the shore, tall white birches disappear into the darker shadows of their own leaves, rising up to blend with the velvety black sky, beset with clear, bright stars. There's no sound beyond the rush of the river, no sensation beyond the coolness of the water and the warmth of his body, the roughness of the stone and the softness of his mouth and hands.

It’s like they’re the first two, at the birth of the world, she thinks hazily. As if nothing and no one exists outside this moment, outside themselves. They have discovered and created something unseen, something new and brilliant and lovely, here in this river.

She closes her eyes, melting a bit more under the duress of his mouth, wrists flexing under his grasp, happily trapped by this man and his love.

This was meant to be a surprise for him, yet somehow, she feels like the one receiving a gift. She needs to hear him say it, needs to hear his voice assuring her that this all feels just as wonderful for him as it does for her.

“You haven’t said…” she murmurs, a bit breathless again. He stops, waits for her to continue. “You haven’t said if you liked your final surprise.”

He pulls back fully at that, looking down at her in a mixture of amusement and confusion.

“Have I not made it obvious?” He asks, half-teasing, half-serious.

She merely looks up at him, eyes shining. She looks so young, suddenly—as young as they day they met, nearly a decade ago. So young and hopeful and absolutely brimming with love.

He imagines a dozen more summers like this—two dozen, if his bones can keep up. Spending his days with a lioness and his nights with this shining sea nymph. It sounds like something out of a fairy tale, and he still can’t quite believe his luck.

“I love it,” he assures her. With a softer tone, he adds, “I love everything about it.”

Her face blossoms into an even deeper expression of joy. Her mouth slides into something a little sharper, “Even the part where I made you think I might die?”

Her tone is teasing, but there’s a light tension around her eyes, the part of her that always finds it hardest to hide her true feelings. She’s still worried that she’s somehow ruined it, somehow marred an absolutely beautiful gift.

“Especially that part,” he decides. He kisses her forehead. “It reminds me to appreciate you, all the more.”

She grins, shifting slightly as if she’d been holding her breath, awaiting his answer. He feels his throat tighten at the small confession contained within that nonverbal response. Yes, like the chaos she often creates, she contains multitudes.

He wants to tell her that the best part of these surprises, the truly wondrous parts of these gifts, is her. The games and the elaborate lengths she goes to are lovely and novel, they speak volumes of her dedication to him and to the love between them. But above all, at the center of each, is the true shining pearl. Herself. Here, with him, so willingly choosing him, over and over again. She is and will always be the greatest surprise of his life. 

Instead, he presses her wrists into the rock just a bit more, leaning in to whisper against her ear. “Come. I think it’s time I truly appreciated my wife.”

She hums in warm agreement at that. He releases her from his hold. She begins to slip past him, but his hands on her hips easily pull her back, relishing the feeling of her body pressed up against his again.

“Eist,” she warns. But he holds her fast, tempting his fate. He’s teasing her still, chuckling lightly as he kisses the curve of her neck.

She suddenly understands the game they’re playing—he wants her growling and frustrated and barely restrained, just like she was at dinner. Wants her to unleash every ounce on him, with every shred of strength she has left.

A task that’s getting easier to fulfill by the second. She shifts in his grasp again, pretending not to notice the way his fingers flex delightedly into her hips, pretending as if it’s not exactly what she wants in turn. She leans back, rolling further into him.

“Stop teasing,” she commands.

But her hands are over his, keeping them firmly on her hips. As usual, what the Lionness says and what she means are two different things.

Chaos, as always, he thinks. She can’t help but create it and he can’t help but love her for doing so.

He doesn’t release her, but lets his hand slip up to the soft curve of her waist as he gently guides her forward, holding her steady as they gingerly make their way to shore, cutting across the pull of the current.

Once they reach shallower waters, he lets go, taking a beat to simply watch her as she continues on.

It takes her a few paces to realize that he’s not right behind her. She turns, face lined with curiosity.

He simply smiles. “Just enjoying the view.”

She arches a brow, but doesn’t retort. Instead, she turns back to the shore with immeasurable slowness, a sense of theatricality that makes his pulse quicken. He shifts closer but doesn’t make any move to actually leave the water as she slowly moves forward, more of her body rising out of the river with each step.

He’s never been a particularly jealous man, but oh, how he envies the little rivulets currently racing down her back, veering into the curve of her spine. She’s putting more sway into her hips, each movement creating small eddies of water, and he understands its small, swirling chaoses—she creates the same within him, a hundred times a day, varied and changing in their origins and levels, but always chaotic in their nature.

By the time the water is at her knees, he’s waited and watched as long as he can. He moves forward quickly. She hears the sloshing of the water and turns slightly at the sound, twittering a bit as his hands land on her waist again, turning her around so that he can kiss her fiercely. She sinks slightly, as if her knees might give out, and her hand goes to his hair—the action dislodges his crown, which clatters against hers on the way down, sending both tumbling into the shallow water.

She’s laughing again, all joy and chaos. He holds her tighter and laughs as well.

Again, he thinks—just a dozen more summers, exactly like this. Perhaps it is greedy and selfish, wanting so much more of this beautiful madness—but can it truly be greedy, if its merely filling the void of everything they waited and wished for, for so long? And can it be selfish, if he wants this for her, just as much as for himself—wants her to feel giddy and light and adored, to feel beyond all doubt that they’ve truly loved and been loved, that they’ve somehow discovered the secret to life itself?

Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. Doesn’t matter, he still wishes for it, with all his soul. Just a dozen more. Then he’d die a happy man.

Now his chaos is rising fully again, to the tips of her toes as she tightens her arms around his shoulders, fingertips pressing into his shoulder blades, growling lightly as her tongue pushes past his teeth.

He grins and lets her destroy him with her love and all its tender ferocity. She conquers with a kiss, and he falls with a smile.


End file.
